


He Visits Twice a Day

by sihaya13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: HPFT, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihaya13/pseuds/sihaya13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius visits the graves of his fallen friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Visits Twice a Day

The paths he walks alone. Falling from the trees, leaves leave their tenure to beneath his feet crunch.

Autumn he finds it to be. Before the storm the calm, the wait, as everything begins to fall.

A mist, orange, fills his mind. A dead sort of orange, old and cracked, into the ground trodden. It swarms the trees, shrouding them from life or death.

The moment he imagines. The moment as He through their door walks, quiet yet loud, crackling with the power of one wearing lack of life as his cloak and carrying cruelty in his right hand.

Their bravery through his cloak does not permeate. Like ants he brushes them aside, in flashes green. The crib he reaches, and over its edges he peers, and then he is gone and the mist recedes.

Far it does not go. At the edge of sight it hovers, to the corner of the eye it clings.

For evil destroyed can never be, it simply hides until out to play it comes.

He visits twice a day.

The dirt paths he walks, creating faint wisps of pale orange floating in his wake as gravel walks beneath. He once knew so well the house he then sees, though now no more than rubble it appears. The doorway stands, crooked the frame, yet still in its place.

Past the house he creeps with apprehension. The memorial he sees, before he reaches the gate. White it is, intertwining patterns covering it, spotted with a little rust here and there. With a creak he pushes it open. Protesting hinges bring it to a halt, leisurely it opens.

There are flowers in front of the gate. Overgrown he sees them, spilling this way and that. His hair, it reminds him of his hair. A brilliant green is the hedge, and he sees not leaves and twigs but eyes of warmth and green.

Mere months it has been, yet so overgrown he finds it to be. Neat had never been the style of them, however much she protested otherwise. In fits of passion were things done, laughing.

The morning this is. The dawn light he finds enters from the gate, warming their stone cold for the new day.

Stylishly engraved, their names begin to glow. From the sky falls the rain as the heavens open wide. Down their cold faces it runs, their impersonally styled names and dates soon wet with rain and more.

As light reaches high, back to his life he fades and yet so soon he returns. Setting now is the sun, leaving to light elsewhere. Rapidly fading, the light is gone. It wishes them goodnight and leaves. Until the first star of the night twinkles in the sky he sits for some time.

To sleep they go. Forever yet for never, for always yet never shall they be.

Though miles away, he visits twice a day.

Imagined only, it is a pity. For now he begins to go mad as sweep him despair does. 

 

A/N: I know this is a weird, experimental style - it was written many years ago, inspired by a poet I was studying in high school English whose name now escapes me


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